


standing right there next to you

by CloudCover (RainyForecast)



Series: Hockey RPF Tumblr Prompts [8]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, shamelessly drowning in feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-22
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-11-03 18:16:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10972725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainyForecast/pseuds/CloudCover
Summary: Zhenya isn’t sure what possessed him to follow Sid home. He’s seen Sid hurt before. It’s just…something about tonight has snapped the last frayed nerve Zhenya has. The rage feels different. It’s finally seeped through to the raw core of himself and he feels like he’s going to fly into a million pieces if he doesn’t do something.Tumblr Promptanonymous asked:I'm so upset by what happened during Game 3 that I cannot think of anything other than the hit and how Sid should feel. Could you write something cute about how Geno takes care of Sid after Game 3?





	standing right there next to you

Zhenya isn’t sure what possessed him to follow Sid home. He’s seen Sid hurt before. He’s seen him spit blood and teeth onto the ice.  He’s seen him walk down the tunnel limping. He’s seen him on his knees in front of a toilet, puking his guts out due to post concussion syndrome.

It’s just…something about tonight has snapped the last frayed nerve Zhenya has in regards to watching Sid get hurt. He’d skated over, stomach heavy and sick, as the trainers had gotten Sid up because he _couldn’t get up on his own_ at first. And he’d felt an impotent rage rise up in himself. He’s no stranger to rage, to anger, to the desire to make an entire team pay for the cruelty they mete out on Sid, night after night after night. Just because the of how beautifully and perfectly he plays.  

But this rage feels different. It’s finally seeped through to the raw core of himself and he feels like he’s going to fly into a million pieces if he doesn’t _do something_. So. He waits around until he overhears that the doctors have cleared Sid to go home and get some sleep, and he waits just long enough after that for Sid to get in his car and leave. Zhenya  needs to give himself some time on the drive over to think of what he wants to say.

***

The half an hour drive from PPG to Sewickley Heights doesn’t really help. He tries to come up with something, anything, to justify what he’s doing but he doesn’t really know himself. All he knows is the rage, and some other deeply welling emotion that he can’t even identify. The Pittsburgh night is is a blur of lights outside his windshield, and he grips the steering wheel until his knuckles are white.

***

Sid’s car is still ticking as it cools where it’s parked in Sid’s driveway, so Zhenya know’s he’s only just arrived and will still be up. He stands in front of the door, heart pounding, still unsure of why he’s feeling like this, why he’s here. But he texts Sid that he’s at the door, anyway. Then he impatiently punches the button of the little speaker thing that Sid has installed instead of a normal doorbell.

“G?” Sid’s voice sounds confused even via the tinny crackle of the speaker.

“Let in, Sid, need to see you,” Zhenya says.

The electronic lock on the door clicks, and the speaker crackles again. “I’m in the living room, come on in.”

When Zhenya finds Sid, he’s curled up in the corner of his sectional, lights dim. He’s got a throw blanket around his shoulders and his hair’s still shower-damp. There’s a Gatorade and a bottle of painkillers on the end table, and his tablet on his lap. Playing game footage, because of course it is. Both Zhenya's brain and chest are doing something weird, so all he manages at first is “Should be looking at screen, Sid?”

“Doc cleared me,” Sid says, his brow creased in concern. “What’s the matter, G? Is something wrong? Are you okay?”

_Are you okay?_

Only Sid, Zhenya thinks wildly, only Sid would get badly injured on the ice and then worry more about someone else’s well being than his own. Zhenya stares at him, tired set to his mouth and patchy playoff scruff. The soft lamplight casting shadows that obscure the bright hazel of his eyes.

Sid.

God.

Oh god,  Zhenya loves him.

That’s what this unidentifiable emotion clogging his throat and clenching his chest is. Sure, Zhenya’s always cared deeply for Sid as a dear friend, a teammate, a captain, but seeing him slam into the ice tonight shook something loose. Sent hairline fractures across Zhenya’s self-ignorance until it shattered utterly. He loves him. More than he’s ever loved anything. He feels crazy with it, like if plunging a knife into his own chest would help Sid in any way, he’d do it immediately.

“G?” Sid says, and Zhenya realizes he’s been staring for who knows how many awkward seconds. “G, what the fuck? Tell me what’s wrong?” And then he moves as if he’s going to get up and cross the room to where Zhenya’s standing. And, no. Zhenya moves forward, and ends up sitting on the edge of the couch, still unable to look away from Sid’s face. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, and he can’t speak. His expression is probably wrecked. Sid’s frown deepens. “G. Talk to me. Please.”

The “please” is what does it, and Zhenya manages to rasp out Sid’s name, and place both hands on Sid’s shoulders. Sid’s face softens. “Hit scare you a little? Doc says it’s not too bad. Don’t look like that.” Zhenya doesn’t even have the _Russian_ to say anything more so he only moves his hands from Sid’s shoulders to cup his face. Sid’s eyes go wide. Zhenya’s maybe lost his mind. But that same driving force from before is back, and once again he feels like he needs to do _something_ or he’s going to suffocate. He strokes his thumbs gently along Sid’s cheeks, still cupping his face, and his eyes fall to Sid’s mouth. Lush and beautiful and perfect. And he can’t just— he needs to ask. So he raises his eyes to Sid’s, and touches a thumb to Sid’s bottom lip. Asking.

“Geno,” Sid breathes. And then: “Zhenya.”

The sound of his real name rips a wounded noise from Zhenya’s throat, and he surges forward to press his lips to Sid’s. His hands move to wind through Sid’s hair, gently mindful of his injury. He deepens the kiss, and Sid melts into it. His mouth opening to Zhenya’s is sweet, and he grabs tight fistfuls of the back of Zhenya’s coat as if he’s afraid Zhenya might decide to stop, or leave. Zhenya wants to laugh. He never wants to stop.

He moves from Sid’s mouth to Sid’s throat, and is rewarded with a shuddering gasp and a hand gripping his hair. But remembering that Sid’s hurt slows his racing pulse, and he gentles his touch. Kisses his way to the side of Sid’s head, which he eventually just ends up (carefully) resting his check against, hands soothing up and down Sid’s arms in an attempt to, Zhenya doesn’t know, comfort him, maybe? And finally, Zhenya finds his voice again.

“Don’t know what happen, Sid. Just know I need to come here. See you.”

“Geno,” Sid says, and his voice is wrecked.

“Call me ‘Zhenya’ again,” Zhenya begs, and leans back to look at him. Sid’s lips are wet and crimson, and his sharp cheekbones are stained pink. The best part though, is that the corners of his eyes are crinkling in the way they do when he’s happy, and a smile is beginning to tug at the corner of his mouth. The sight of it loosens the fear and worry in Zhenya’s heart, a little.

“Zhenya,” Sid says, a little bashfully, and his lashes lower. Zhenya thought he couldn’t possibly feel _more_ , but the way he feels about Sid is apparently this fractal-like thing that is ever-expanding. “Stay, Zhenya?” Sid asks, and Zhenya nods.

“Yes,” he answers, there’s a lot more to his yes than just “ yes I’ll spend the night with you, Sid.” A lifetime more.

Sid tugs at him, and Zhenya sheds his jacket and his shoes and after some maneuvering, finds himself laying on Sidney Crosby’s decadently roomy couch with Sidney Crosby in his arms. Heavy and warm against his chest. Smelling like sandalwood soap and Icy Hot.

“We can talk ‘bout this tomorrow,” Sid murmurs. “Tired. And I’ve a got headache.” Zhenya kisses Sid’s hair.

“Yes. Talk tomorrow. But, Sid?”

“Mm hm?”

“Think I’m love you, Sid. Or— not think. Know.”

Sid hums sleepily, sounding happy. “Me too. Me too.”

Sid’s still hurt, and they’ve still lost the game tonight, and they’re still locked in a brutal and uncertain fight for the Cup. But for now, none of that matters, and everything is only comfort and peace.

**Author's Note:**

> This was a Tumblr prompt fill and is un-beta'd. 
> 
> Title is from Mondo Cozmo's ["Plastic Soul" ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fb9ewnU6Rjw)  
>  
> 
> You can find me as [creaturesofnarrative ](http://creaturesofnarrative.tumblr.com/) (main) and [knifeshoeoreofight](http://knifeshoeoreofight.tumblr.com/) (hockey blog) on Tumblr, and as @RainyForecast on Twitter. Come say hi and cry with me about how hockey both real and fictional has eaten our lives.


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